


Roger's Lament

by ButtertheNutter



Category: Tennis RPF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:15:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7575343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButtertheNutter/pseuds/ButtertheNutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger has just been knocked out of Wimbledon 2016 after falling prey to yet more injury during his 2016 season. Roger struggles to come to terms with the fact that he had come so close to title number 18 and let it slip away from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roger's Lament

**Friday 8th July - Wimbledon Semi-Final**

 

The pain. The dull aching pain. First it was the impact of his knee upon the hard grassy court. Now...now it was the feeling of heaviness spreading from his knee up his thigh and into his hip. He would be OK if he could just lay here, face down in the cold grass. Yes. This grass had never let him down. He owned this very court for Christ sake. It had given him so much. But even now he could hear the sympathetic 'aw's and the encouraging calls from the crowd. He had to move. He had to get up - for them more than for him. He couldn't care less about the dick across the net from him. 

 

He slowly got to his feet, minding the aching now surrounding his left knee. Around him he could hear deafening cheers and applause, no doubt loyal fans trying to spur him on. He couldn't let them down. Not now. 

After a slow trudge back to his chair, he picked up a towel, buried his face in it to hide tiny tears of frustration and made his way back to the baseline. A glance up to his box and there sat Mirka, her face cold and unforgiving. He knew she loved him, but a little compassion would have been nice. 

 

But then before he had time to think, he was broken. The great, lumbering kid had capitalised. 

 

A few games later and the end was near. Still now, Roger could feel the effect of the fall on more than just his leg. His hip felt stiff and his ego had certainly taken a massive blow. 

 

When that final ball drifted wide, he knew it was over. He wanted to cry. He wanted to throw his racket, run to the box and crawl up next to Mirka, hug his girls, hug his boys and generally hide away from the world. He'd lost his chance. Blown it. There had been no Rafa, no Novak (who had been knocked out earlier) and he'd had such a good run! He'd been undone by a stumble...because that was all it was. A stumble. His ankle hadn't given way, his knee hadn't buckled. No. Just a dodgy turn. 

 

He met the gorilla at the net, all gangly and stupid, shook his hand as per expectations and went on to pack his stuff. People still tried to reach for him, their hands outstretched, begging for autographs or photos. They still loved him. He loved them back. He really did. But he couldn't thank them now. He needed headspace, so after waiting for Milos, he walked off the court savouring the cheers that had now become muffled in his head, and retreated to the locker room. 

 

How could he have let this happen? He who was the greatest player of all time. He pondered a while over his legacy and found himself getting riled up over his humiliating loss. But then after some angry punches to the walls and locker doors, he contended himself on the fact that Milos won purely because of his serve. Of course that lumbering oaf would rely upon it. But that wasn't tennis. Where was the beauty in his game? Where was the grace in his backhand? The style in his serve?

 

Speak of the devil, the door to the changing room opened and Milos took a half-step in. He was sharing a joke with someone outside the locker room and it was obviously very funny,

Roger thought, because he was laughing even with that smug fucking look on his face. Roger turned his back and began to peel off his shirt. He placed a hand over his chest where he had landed so harshly on the ground. It felt tender to the touch.

 

“Oh hey Roger-“

At hearing Milos address him, Roger turned his head to acknowledge he was listening, but he didn't engage in conversation. “Hey listen man, it was a good game. You were great out there.”

Roger shrugged. “And, y’know...we all fall from time to time. Don't let it get you down.”

Roger gritted his teeth. Was this guy for real? He picked a clean shirt from his bag and began to pull it on, his back still turned to Milos. 

“You see, Roger-“ Milos continued “-tennis is like poker. Sometimes you're dealt a good hand, other times-“

“I’m gonna stop you right there, Kid.”Roger had turned around and the storm that raged in his eyes was enough to silence Raonic. He raised a finger in warning. “Don't you ever try to lecture me on tennis again.”And with that, Roger promptly picked up his bag and stormed out of the locker room, giving not two fucks that he had barged past Milos and slammed the door on the way.

 

***

 

 

Back at the house, things were not much better for Roger. He returned to find his team busy in various ways in the kitchen. As soon as he had come through the door, one of the boys came running to him in a state. He could hear Severin on the phone to someone.

“No, I don't know what went wrong. I told you, he was off court and out of the locker room before we got there-” 

Roger scooped up Leo, sat him on his arm and went through to the kitchen, draping his jacket over the back of a chair.

“It could have been a trip but it looked like the knee. No we don't know where he w- Wait! He’s here, speak to him yourself…”Severin held out the handset. Roger didn't know or care who was on the other end. He took the phone and ended the call without hesitation. He handed it back to a frustrated looking Severin. Mirka had been busy wrestling a stubborn Lenny into his highchair and it was now that Roger realised that this was where the majority of the noise was coming from. Leo, who had been rather quiet on Roger’s arm, had become restless following his brother’s display, wriggling to break free. 

 

“Roger…Pierre needs to know what's going on.”

“No, Seve. Pierre wants all the little details.”

Severin shrugged, and as Leo had just started tugging on Roger’s hair, Mirka came over to take him from him. 

“Hello darling.” She pecked him on the cheek. It was more a formality nowadays. She took Leo from him and attempted to sit him in the highchair next to Lenny.

“Roger…” Severin sighed. “Are we going to talk about your Wimbledon exit?”

“I don't know, Severin. Are we?”

Severin sighed again and began to rub his head with his fingers. 

 

“Papa!” His girls,  Myla and Charlene bounded around the corner and simultaneously threw their arms around his middle, gripping on tightly. He stroked their hair and looked upon them both lovingly as they gazed up at him in admiration amongst the chaos and negativity that was quickly filling up the room.

“We saw you fall over, Papa.”

“Uncle Severin, says that it means trouble.” Severin at least had the decency to look embarrassed when Roger shot him a look. 

“Daddy’s fine, girls.” He reassured them.

 

Roger knew that a million and one questions would be filling their heads at this time. He had known how Mirka felt about it for years. He could sense both her and Severin avoiding his gaze, treading cautiously on egg shells around him and it did his head in. He told the girls to go and play in another room and then rounded on Severin, his hands placed firmly on his hips.

“Go on. Say the word. Tell me to do it.”

There came a heavy sigh from Mirka as Severin rolled his eyes.

“Roger, no one’s telling you to do anything you don't want t-”

“But you were implying, weren't you?!” 

Severin and Mirka gave each other a worrying look, a look that Roger knew only too well. He'd seen the look before. He'd seen it after losing the final of the US Open in the previous season. He'd seen it in the doctors office as they assessed his knee and told him he needed surgery. He'd seen it even more recently than that, when his back injury had resurfaced.

Every time he'd seen that look, it had been swiftly followed by a withdrawal from the next tournament and it broke Roger’s heart every time. He'd spent this entire season plagued with illness and injury and had had to suffer the looming shadow of ‘The R Word’ since. 

 

“You think I should retire, don't you. Both of you.”

There was an uncomfortable silence between the three of them as Mirka and Severin continued to exchange nervous glances and Roger stood in disbelief as he watched his two closest friends utterly betray him. 

“I don't believe this.” Roger grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “I’m outta here.”

He turned and left the house. 


End file.
